


...And all I got was this lousy t shirt

by redtoes



Series: What happens in Vegas [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtoes/pseuds/redtoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Happens In Vegas sequel fic! Oliver and Felicity's friends and family deal with the fact they got married in Vegas, and Laurel Lance thinks she smells a rat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 404

**Author's Note:**

> Because you all asked for it, here it is. What everyone else thought of the Vegas wedding. My writing speed is a bit slow at the moment, but comments always help things move faster. Hint hint.
> 
> As ever I own nothing. Well apart from my OC Juliette Parker who I'm totally writing into this at some point because she's so much fun to play with.

Laurel is invited to the blessing of course, but she doesn't go. It feels wrong to celebrate Oliver’s wedding to someone else. It isn't like she’s still holding a torch, or nursing a flame, but she can't deny that somewhere inside she’d thought that when all was said and done he would end up with her. Why else would they have found their way back to each other so many times? Despite the infidelity, the lies, the deaths - somehow they had always come back together. 

Laurel and Oliver.

And now there he is, married to someone else. 

Felicity Smoak. 

Laurel can't quite figure her out. On one level the women in the paparazzi photos is gorgeous: blonde hair, big eyes, perfectly chosen designer dress. On the other hand she had met Oliver’s bride at the club once, and the nervous, geeky girl she remembered was definitely not the type to catch her ex’s eye. 

She wishes them (him) all the happiness in the world. But she doesn't understand it. 

Maybe this is a sign that Oliver Queen finally was growing up. But if that was the case, why couldn't he have grown up for her?

And getting engaged and married in under 24 hours in Las Vegas hardly seemed grown up. 

Laurel sits at her desk, ostensibly researching her next case but really scrolling through headlines on Google news about Oliver's nuptials. 

The bride wore white to the blessing. 

Walter Steel stood as Oliver’s best man in the spot that would have gone to Tomny Merlyn. 

Thea was the only bridesmaid. 

Despite her misgivings, Laurel can't help but smile at pictures of a happy Thea Queen. She had enjoyed having the younger Queen around the office during her community service. It had felt like having a little sister again. 

Now Thea was someone else’s sister in law. 

Felicity Smoak. 

On impulse Laurel types the woman's name into Google. Pages of Queen wedding related search results appear. Sighing she clicks into the advanced search and adds the words "bride" and "wedding" into the do not include box. Then she runs the search again. 

There’s surprisingly little public information available about the woman. Laurel finds a few tagged photos on Facebook but no public profile. No cv on LinkedIn. No twitter handle. Or at least none under her real name. 

Who is this girl who has captured Oliver’s heart?

Halfway down the second page a news headline catches her eye. 

"Is Oliver Queen the Hood?" The URL says starlingcitypost.com.

Laurel blinks. What’s this? And what does it have to do with Felicity Smoak? It’s dated the weekend of Oliver’s wedding in Vegas and she vaguely recalls Joanna mentioning something about this but she never read it herself. Too busy dealing with that weekend's other big news story. 

She clicks through but gets a 404 error. Page not found. 

Frowning, Laurel hits back and looks for a cached version. But none of the links work. It is as if someone has erased the article from the Internet. 

She frowns again. She can almost feel that little line on her forehead appear as her eyebrows pushed together. Tommy always called it her ’sonething’s afoot’ face and had teased her that one day the wind would change and she would stay like that. A perpetual frown of curiosity. 

For the first time in a long time thoughts of Tommy don't hurt. That’s almost enough to make her smile but a smile right now would be a distraction. And Dinah Laurel Lance will not be distracted when she smells a mystery in need of solving. 

Something is, in fact, afoot. Something to do with the Hood. And Oliver Queen. 

And Felicity Smoak. 

Laurel picks up her handbag. She has the article title and the date of publication from the search engine results. The online version might be unreachable but even in this day and age Starling City library still maintains a 12 month print copy archive for the Post. 

She'll find the article there. 


	2. Breakfast

“I need to pick a what?” 

“A charity,” Thea says patiently, “you need to pick a charity. It’s what we idle rich do.”

“I'm not idle,” Felicity points out, “I have a job.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Thea shrugs, “it’s what’s expected. And how long are you going to stay in your job anyway. It’s not like you need the money.”

“Thea,” Oliver chides from the other side of the breakfast table. He’s mostly stayed quiet so far but apparently that comment crossed some sort of line.

“I like my job,” Felicity says, fully aware that Thea has heard her say it before. And she didn't listen that time either. 

“But it's a job.” Thea says scrunching up her nose.

“And it's mine, and I like it.”

“I don't get it,” Thea says, “surely you must know that being married to the boss is gonna make things kinda... awkward.” 

“Oliver is not my boss,” Felicity says.

“No,” Thea agrees, “he’s your boss’s boss’s boss. That’ll make things three times as awkward.”

“If I can get Walter to take over as CEO,” Oliver says, “then I won't be anything at Queen Consolidated. I can go back to running the club and you can go to college.”

“I already deferred for the year,” Thea reminds him, “if I don't have the club to run I’ll need to choose a charity, and I don't want to choose a charity.”

“I don't want to choose a charity either,” Felicity says. “And it’s not fair that I have to choose one and you don't.”

“I'm the druggie younger sibling who’s ditching out of college,” Thea says, “you’re the trophy wife. Trophy wives have charities. Druggie sisters have rehab.”

“You never went to rehab,” Oliver points out. Thea sticks her tongue out at him.

“I am not a trophy wife,” Felicity says.

“Well, you’re not a mistress, a girlfriend or a political partner,” Thea says, ticking off options on her fingers, “if you had been a business major you might qualify as an ambitious spouse but you don't have an interest in being CEO. If you gave up the job you might be a gold-digger, but we’ve already established you’re not doing that, so right now you’re young, beautiful and very photogenic. A Starling City girl done good. A perfect choice for Oliver’s first wife.”

“Only wife,” Oliver objects.

“Whatever,” Thea says, waving him off, “you know as well as I do how tabloids think. If you don't want them to dig too deeply you need to play up to some of the stereotypes.”

Felicity meets Oliver’s eyes across the table. Neither of them wants anyone looking closely at their lives. And not for the reasons Thea thinks. 

“You said first wife, not trophy wife.” Felicity says to Thea, but she doesn't look away from Oliver.

“Ah but first wife is what trophy wives want to be. So they do a lot of the same stuff. Charities. Photos ops. Children.”

Felicity chokes on her orange juice.

“Children?!”

“Yes,” Thea nods, “Children.”

“I am _so_ not ready to have kids.”

Felicity’s eyes find Oliver’s. She’s gratified to see he looks somewhat shocked by Thea’s pronouncement as well.

“Like that matters,” Thea says waving another hand, “it's what the press will expect. If you don't start pumping out heirs-” at this point Oliver literally drops his head into his hands “-they’re gonna think something’s wrong. You’re like Kate Middleton now, get with the programme blondie.”

Felicity can feel her jaw hanging open as she stares at Thea. Her sister-in-law has an absolutely serious look on her face and Oliver isn't saying anything - his head is still in his hands - and Felicity can suddenly feel the pressure of newspaper headlines and catty comments made by gossip columns piling up around her.

Then she realises that Oliver, head in hands, is shaking.

With laughter.

She feels the expression on her face change, her eyes narrow, her mouth close into an unimpressed line, and Thea grins.

Oliver finally lets go and laughs out loud, the kind of large belly laugh that she hears so rarely from him and it’s wonderful.

Thea lifts a hand and Oliver fist bumps her, and both of them grin at Felicity.

“Your face...” Oliver manages before descending into laughter again.

“My revenge will be swift,” Felicity tells him, “and you will never see it coming.”

Oliver grins and takes a sip of his orange juice.

“She wasn't wrong about the charity thing though,” he admits, “it's good to choose one. I’ll have PR send you some details.”

“I have a job,” she reminds him tartly, “in fact I have two, and I don't get paid for the second one.”

“What's the second one?” Thea asks curiously.

Felicity stares at her as she realises her slip-up.

“I really hate that you consider being married to me a job,” Oliver says, saving her.

“Well, if you snored less,” Felicity says, which is literally the first thing to enter her brain and is also completely untrue. Oliver doesn't snore. Oliver sleeps like a crazy silent ninja. It can be unnerving.

“I do not snore,” Oliver objects.

“How would you know?” Felicity retorts.

“She’s got you there, big brother,” Thea laughs and then her cellphone beeps and she transfers her attention to the screen. “Gotta take this,” she says and gets up to leave the table.

Felicity turns apologetic eyes to Oliver who raises an eyebrow.

’Sorry,’ she mouths and he pulls a face at her.

“C’mon,” he says, “don't want you to be late for work.”

He stands up and walks around the table to pull back her chair. It's odd, this incredibly mannered version of Oliver. It's so unlike the playboy or vigilante versions of him. She can't help but think it’s indicative of his romantic side - the side that prompted the original drugged proposal, bought the rings, went down on one knee to ask her to stay married, as they thought it was. That side of him doesn't come out much in ordinary life so she appreciates these tiny gestures he makes.

Oliver’s phone beeps and he glances at the display.

“Diggle’s out front with the car.”

Felicity nods.

“I just need to get my bag,” she says and heads for the main staircase.

She’s been living in the house for a little over a month now, but she still finds it intimidating. It feels like the kind of hotel she could never afford to stay in. Sumptuous. Luxurious. Rich. 

Oliver keeps trying to encourage her to spend money but she doesn’t. He had to talk her out of her need to contribute money towards the household food bills, finally winning her over with the argument that Raisa might take offence at the suggestion she couldn't manage the kitchen budget.

This house isn't her. It isn't Oliver or Thea either really but they at least fit into it. In contrast Felicity feels like a round peg in a square hole. Or maybe just a blonde IT girl in cheap but colorful shoes shoved into the lifestyle of the rich and famous.

She put most of her belongings into storage rather than bring them with her - which is odd because it's not like they don't have the space. She just didn't think the Queen Mansion would benefit from her Ikea bookshelves and thrift store couch. 

But now she finds she misses them.

She loves Oliver. She loves her husband and her new sister and the measures both of them took to win over her parents.

But sometimes she misses her old life, with the battered sofa and the tiny kitchen with not enough storage where she knew where everything was.

She retrieves her purse from the side table beside Oliver’s bed. In Oliver’s room. In Oliver’s mother’s house. 

And she tries not to think about how she never thought married life would involve living with her spouse’s family. 

Because Oliver can’t leave Thea - not after the year she’s had. And Oliver can't leave the house - there are appearances to maintain.

So Felicity sighs and leaves the room

Raisa has a habit of leaving the day’s post on a side table in the upper hall, so that family can go through it on their way down to breakfast, leaving the envelopes out for a few days in case anyone wants to review them. Invitations are easy to spot, cards stand out amongst paper and are apparently the only part of snail mail Thea has an interest in, as they rarely lay on the table for more than a few hours, but bills and other official looking documentation can stay there for days. Felicity doesn’t think either of the Queen children have ever considered the remaining post as anything other than Somebody Else’s Problem, but her guilt over not contributing to the household finances has her cast her eye over the pile once or twice a week.

Today an envelope catches her eye. It has her name on it - her new name - and the address is handwritten. It's too thin to be an invitation or card, instead the paper looks flimsy, cheap.

She pauses to insert her thumb under the lip of the envelope and tears. 

A sheet of paper is revealed. It feels almost waxy. Cheap. Handwriting covers it, precise loops and dips. And Felciity knows, suddenly, just who this letter is from. 

Her blood runs cold. She only met the women once, but she knows her importance to Oliver.

She knows that this letter will not be without repercussions.

She considers, for less than a second, throwing it away unread. But she demures. The letter-writer, for all her faults, loves Oliver. And she can't deny her this moment to speak.

Felicity walks down the hall like a zombie. Fully aware of her destination but stuck in her own head. 

This will change everything. The easy cameraderie, the relationship she has built with Thea, the secrets she shares with Oliver. She knows, without reading, that this letter is a portent of doom.

“Felicity!”

She looks up from her introspection to see Oliver, watching her with a cocked eyebrow.

“Everything okay?”

“Fine!” She says, quickly. A little too quickly. She can see the concern in his expression.

“What is it?”

She doesn't hesitate. She knows what to do.

Wordlessly she offers him the letter. He takes it and reads it, his face moving from curious to stony to downright angry. His expression when he finally looks at her is familiar to her from nights where he wears green leather and face paint. 

“Felicity,” her husband says, his voice decidedly and artificially neutral, “why is my mother writing to you?”


End file.
